


Since the Beginning, for Always

by Rookshadow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Drabble Collection, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:48:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rookshadow/pseuds/Rookshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles following Sherlock and John's relationship from that very first day at St Barts, through Reichenbach and onwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Since the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does have a heart.

Sherlock had a heart. It beat in his chest and pumped blood through his veins. He could feel it pulse beneath his skin when its natural rhythm was elevated. He was, after all, human, human enough. He required the muscular organ encased within his ribcage to survive. The physical heart, yes, obviously he had one, needed one. The metaphorical heart, however…

Sherlock learned early in his life just how scary that beast could be.

Simply divorcing himself from it, locking it away and forgetting it was there had been enough for awhile. Sentiment, after all, was for the losing side. There was no advantage in caring.

But then he met John.

John was a puzzle. A fascinating and downright bewildering, sometimes frustrating, puzzle that Sherlock had yet to figure out.

Sherlock did have a heart. John somehow had the key to unlock it, somehow was the key, somehow found a way to slip inside the barriers as if he belonged there. Sherlock cared for John. Loved him, even if he would never say the word.

He had since the very beginning.


	2. First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock never expected Mike to actually find him someone.

Sherlock hadn’t expected Mike to take his comment seriously. In truth, he had merely said it as a means of escaping the pointless conversation Mike was insistent on having. Sherlock tolerated Mike, as much as he did anyone who showed some sort of intelligence, but he couldn’t stand small talk. Especially not when there was a fully equipped lab and experiments to do, and a corpse in the mortuary that needed flogging.

Sherlock had simply stated a fact. He would be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. He’d been reliably informed by a few sources just how impossible he was to live with. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all. A heartless man who found severed body parts more likeable than people.

He never thought Mike would actually find him someone, certainly not so soon. Certainly not someone so… interesting.

John Watson: Army Doctor invalided from Afghanistan, acclimatized to violence and danger. Just the type of person Sherlock was looking for. The perfect companion. Someone who wouldn’t mind his line of work, who could help with cases and keep him focused. Someone who would not run screaming from the first experiment left on the kitchen table or the mere mention of a crime scene in all of its glorious detail. Not like all the others.

John was far from boring.


	3. Killing a Man is One Hell of an Ice Breaker

All it took was one look and a few minutes together and Sherlock was practically an expert on who John Watson was. He knew of John’s military history from his leg and the way he stood. He knew of Harry’s drinking habits and even figured out who Clara was and all from the mobile phone John had briefly let him use.

What John knew of Sherlock Holmes was considerably less extensive and it had taken him a lot longer to figure out. For starters, he knew that Sherlock was an annoying, arrogant dick and that he wasn’t a safe man to be around, not at all. He knew Sherlock lived an exciting life and was just as much of an adrenaline junkie as he was. He knew that Sherlock had more enemies than he did friends, which made John sad for him in a way. He was also fairly certain that Sherlock was completely mad, but despite all of that, or maybe because of it, John found him fascinating, brilliant, amazing.

John didn’t know Sherlock in the way Sherlock seemed to know him, but he trusted him, found he even needed him, more than he had trusted or needed anyone in a long, long time. He cared for Sherlock. He’d do anything for him and he barely even knew him. He even killed a man their very first night together just to keep him safe and in his life. Perhaps John was a little mad himself. It wouldn’t surprise him. He wasn’t the same John Watson that decided to join the army and was deployed to Afghanistan. A lot had changed since then.

Sherlock probably knew that too.


	4. Semtex and a Warmer Coat

John stuffed his hands in his pockets and shivered slightly in the cold, wishing he had a warmer coat or at least a pair of gloves. He had planned to go to Sarah’s for the night, not really expecting anything. He’d take the sofa as usual, if that’s all she offered. Their relationship had evolved to something more than just friends, but never to anything sexual, which was fine with him. He enjoyed her company and the deep conversations they always seemed to get into, which made the hours easily disappear. He enjoyed the occasional kisses and the quiet moments where he just held her. Anything more than what they had felt unnecessary.

He just needed to get away from Sherlock for awhile. God help him, he loved the man, but sometimes only small doses of him were all John could manage without wanting to kill him or shove him up against a wall. Sarah was used to John’s ranting. She understood his frustrations and the desires that John had yet to work out. She was always willing to listen and she always knew what to say or when to push a cup of tea in his hands and just let him vent.

Tea sounded really good right now, as did curling up together to watch whatever was on telly. At least Sarah’s place would be warm, unlike the flat’s boarded up windows that did little to keep out the cold.

He shivered again, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets, hunching over as he walked, as if that made any difference at all. Perhaps if he had dressed a little warmer, he would have been looking straight ahead, rather than at the ground. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so consumed by thoughts of his annoying dick of a flatmate, he would have seen the men in time to fight them off; he wouldn’t be standing here strapped with semtex with a voice gushing false pleasantries into his ear, telling him what a good boy he was, following instructions. Perhaps he shouldn’t have wished for a warmer coat.

"Bet you never saw this coming."

John repeated the words in his ear, playing the stoic soldier, but feeling his stomach drop at the look Sherlock gave him. He never imagined the level of trust or care Sherlock felt for him, until that moment when he was forced to rip it away.


	5. Nightmares and Could Haves

It took a while for John to remember exactly what had happened at the pool. After the shock and the fear induced adrenaline subsided, the nightmares came. Nightmares that replaced flashbacks of the war with explosions and gunshots that never actually happened, that had him kneeling beside Sherlock's limp body, cradling him, praying for those gorgeous eyes to look at him again with life behind them.

In the dreams, Sherlock was always the one who was shot, who seized and then went still, those wide, panicked eyes, still staring, but no longer seeing, no longer observing, just frozen in that one last look. In the dreams, John was always the one in pain and struggling to breathe, unable to do much but scream without sound, as Jim Moriarty looked over his handiwork with that gleefully, devilish grin that John couldn't shake from his mind. It felt real, but it was all wrong.

In truth, there was no explosion. There were no gunshots. Sherlock had never fired at the vest and Moriarty had called off his sniper. By chance or luck, or whatever it was, nothing had really happened at all. They had both survived. They had walked out of the pool with their hearts hammering, but not even a scratch on them.

The nightmares filled in all the scenarios that could have happened, all the what ifs. John could have lost Sherlock that night. He could have knelt there doing everything in his power to keep his friend's heart beating, held him even long after the spark behind those pale eyes had faded. He could have knelt there, with blood soaking into his clothes, while the entire world collapsed around him. He could have had his heart carved out of his chest while it was still beating.

He could have...


	6. Craving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one turned out with a hint of Sheriarty.

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, trying to lay still, his toes rhythmically tap-taping against the armrest. His phone was pressed between his palms and resting beneath his chin. He could hear the rain outside, drumming lightly against the window, but the sound only made him more irritated. His mind had been buzzing since that night at the pool. Moriarty's game hadn't ended the way Sherlock had expected or hoped it would. It hadn't ended at all. It had worked him up and left him hanging, desperate. It had been just a taste, a tease, and Sherlock knew that no other case would ever come close to quenching this need. 

He hated himself for wanting more, for wanting another encounter with the consulting criminal. Sherlock's near obsession with the game had almost cost him the one person who mattered most and he couldn't handle the thought of being without John and having to live alone again. It left him with a foul taste in his mouth and a painful feeling in his gut. He could have lost John that night and he would've only had himself to blame.

But Moriarty was something new and interesting, and Sherlock wanted more than just a taste. No one had ever aroused his mind the way he had. No one had ever understood the way his mind worked so accurately they could dig in deep and leave him craving for more. No other case had ever left him this restless.

Sherlock couldn't lie still, couldn't focus on anything or think about anyone else. Moriarty had done this to him, had left him hanging on the edge, so desperate for a distraction or for some sort of release. He liked to watch Sherlock dance. If only he could see the state he was in now.


End file.
